Minutes later, I turn onto Rockridge Road. Half a mile in, I pass by a plain metal mailbox with the name SCHWEIDER finger-painted in black on the side. I turn into the gravel lane and bounce over potholes as I head toward the big white farmhouse. I crest the hill only to notice the smaller cottage-style home on my left, and I realize it’s probably the original farmhouse, where the elders would live now.
I drive past the larger house and park near the cottage. Though it’s midday, the sky is low and dark and spitting rain. As I pass by a mullioned window, I see the glow of lantern light inside, telling me someone is there. I step onto the porch, knock, and wait. I’m about to knock a second time in case Eli Schweider is hard of hearing, when the door creaks open.
I find myself looking at a bent, white-haired man who’s at least a foot shorter than me. Tiny eyes peer out at me from the folded-leather creases of eyes set into a face that’s brown from the sun and mottled with age spots. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a lumpy nose, and he tilts his head back to look at me through Coke-bottle lenses.
“Who’s there?” comes a crushed-gravel voice.
“I’m Kate Burkholder, the chief of police of Painters Mill.”
He stares at me long enough for me to notice cloudy irises that had once been blue, and a mat of drool in a beard that reaches all the way to his belt. “You’re an Englischer.”
“Yes.”
“I have no business with you.”
He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “Please, Bishop Schweider. Bishop Troyer sent me.” The statement is out before I can amend it. I add in Pennsylvania Dutch, “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
As always, my fluency in the language garners his attention. “Burkholder is a good, strong Amish name.”
Raindrops begin to tap on the ground behind me. When he doesn’t invite me inside, I ask, “May I come in? I promise not to stay too long.”
He shuffles back and I step into a small room with low ceilings and exposed beams. The odors of woodsmoke and toasted bread fill the air. But the room contains the slightly unpleasant smells of mildew, cedar, and old things, too. From where I’m standing, I can see into a small kitchen with stone walls and a two-burner stove. Atop a table, a mug of something hot sits next to a paper plate with a single piece of toast.
“I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I begin.
He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if it’s because he didn’t hear me or he chose not to. Turning his back to me, he shuffles toward the kitchen, sliding his feet across the wood planks a few inches at a time.
“You speak Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch and yet you’re an Englischer,” he says. “There’s something wrong with that.”
“I left the Amish when I was young.”
He tries to look at me over his shoulder, but his neck is too stiff. He continues shuffling toward the table. “Who is your father?”
“Jacob Burkholder.”
He turns and looks at me. “You must be Little Katie.”
I smile. “Not so little anymore.”
“What is it you need?”
“I’m working on a case. From a long time ago. It’s about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”
A quiver goes through the old man’s body, as if he’d been hit with a brisk wind and the cold took his breath away. “They are with God,” he says. “The children, too.”
“Except for William.”
“God spared Billy.” He starts toward the table, shuffling. The soles of his shoes scrape across the floor, sounding vaguely like a saw through wood. “Are you going to catch the men responsible, Katie Burkholder?”
“I’ve taken one man into custody. The others were murdered.”
“God will make the final judgment.”
His progress is slow and uncomfortable to watch. I have to resist the urge to help him into the chair. I wait until he’s settled in before continuing. “Did the police talk to you about what happened that night?”
“The English police.” He says the words with disdain. “They don’t care about the Amisch. Not then. Not now.”
“I care.”
He meets my gaze, but he is unmoved. “What is it you need from me?”
“Is there anything you can tell me about the night Willis Hochstetler was killed?” I ask. “Do you know of anything unusual that happened in the days before or after? Or did you hear any rumors?”
“What happened in the house that night was gottlos.” Ungodly. He sets down the toast as if realizing it’s covered with maggots. “When we found the boy, he was … shattered. It was a painful time for all of us.”
“Did you know Wanetta and Willis?”
“I baptized them when they joined the church. I spoke to them many times. Saw them at worship.” He nods. “Willis es en faehicher schreiner.” Willis was an able carpenter. “Wanetta—” He shakes his head.
“What about her?”
“I talked to William after … what happened. He was a boy. Only fourteen years old and innocent. But even then, he knew things.”
“Like what?”
He raises his gaze to me. “Those men … they took Wanetta. They used her. Soiled her. Forced her to break her vows to her husband. Her sacred vow to the church.”